FATHER SWEET JANUARY
Swear on my insides. I’ve been all
hamma jamma since the new year
when the desert made me fly above it
in winter. I want me excessive.
A loose fly near a mirror. A warrior
administratively empowered until,
hot damn, it’s all over. The rug
is plush and blue like the blues
we all suspect. Who’s to say how
it’ll burst. I call dibs on the words
smooth and echo-y. I’m not going
anywhere, after all. It’s you they want,
after all. It’s you that’s always
feinted a cut, well-strapped storm.
The headlights blind us and we fall forward into sea.
I’ve been making plans to stuff backpacks full of the
necessaries and then some extras. I’ve been making plans
to make an evacuation plan and to head, most likely,
south, to the desert. Additionally, I’ve been trying to remember
to grab my keys when I leave the home and to take pills
to prevent eventual birth. This is a poem fresh with
leaving. I’ve told you before that all my people are
gone, but I didn’t tell you what they left and who
has replaced them. My brother asks me about wants, how
to get them met. I tell him about the street woman who
screamed at the Chihuahuas, and all I wanted was a porch
where I could be a neighbor. Ask me again. I’m a real ass.